In came two provosts' men leading between them a prisoner, a man in uniform and wearing the insignia of a United States army major--the cleverest spy it was said in all the Wilhelmstrasse's pay, a genius who had grown rich at his filthy trade of selling out his country's secrets, and who had been caught at last by merest chance.
The prisoner had glanced smilingly about the half-lit room as he came in.

For the barest fraction of a second his gaze had flickered over Gavin Brice and the three other officers who stood there in the shadow.

Then, with that same easy, confident smile on his masklike, pallid face, the spy had turned his glittering black eyes on the officers at the courtmartial table.
"Gentlemen," he had said amusedly, "you need not go through the farce of trying me.

I am guilty.

I say this with no bravado and with no fear.